THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


BY 

HAMILTON 
WRIGHT 
AABIE 


DECORATED 

BY 
WILL  H  LOW 


NEW  YORK  PUBLISHElTBy  DODD| 


WEAD  AND  COMPANY /ADCCCCHI 


Copyright,  1891,  1893,  1898,  by  Dcdd,  Mead,  and  Company 


The  University  Press,  Cambridge,  U.  S.  A. 


IN  THE  FOREST  OF  ARDEN 


Go  with  me :  if  you  like,  upon  report, 
The  soil,  the  profit,  and  this  kind  of  life, 
I  will  your  very  faithful  factor  be, 
And  buy  it  with  your  gold  right  suddenly 


862318 


"AND  I  FOR  ROSALIND" 


I 


Under  the  greenwood  tree, 
Who  loves  to  lie  with  me, 
And  turn  his  merry  note 
Unto  the  sweet  bird's  throat, 
Come  hither,  come  hither,  come  hither 


Rosalind  had  just  laid  a  spray  of 
apple  blossoms  on  the  study  table* 

"Well,"  I  said,  "when  shall  we 
start  ?" 

44  To-morrow/' 

Rosalind  has  a  habit  of  swift  deci 
sion  when  she  has  settled  a  question 
in  her  own  mind,  and  I  was  not  sur 
prised  when  she  replied  with  a  single 
decisive  word*  But  she  also  has  a 
habit  of  making  thorough  preparation 
for  any  undertaking,  and  now  she  was 
quietly  proposing  to  go  off  for  the 
summer  the  very  next  day,  and  not  a 
trunk  was  packed,  not  a  seat  secured 
in  any  train,  not  a  movement  made 
toward  any  winding  up  of  household 
affairs.  I  had  great  faith  in  her  ability 
to  execute  her  plans  with  celerity, 
but  I  doubted  whether  she  could  be 
ready  to  turn  the  key  in  the  door,  bid 
farewell  to  the  milkman  and  the 
butcher,  and  start  the  very  next  day 


for  the  Forest  of  Arden.  For  several 
past  seasons  we  had  planned  this  bold 
excursion  into  a  country  which  few 
persons  have  seemed  to  know  much 
about  since  the  day  when  a  poet  of 
great  fame,  familiar  with  many  strange 
climes  and  peoples,  found  his  way 
thither  and  shared  the  golden  fortune  of 
his  journey  with  all  the  world.  Winter 
after  winter,  before  the  study  fire,  we 
had  made  merry  plans  for  this  trip 
into  the  magical  forest;  we  had  dis 
cussed  the  best  methods  of  travelling 
where  no  roads  led;  we  had  enjoyed 
in  anticipation  the  surmises  of  our 
neighbours  concerning  our  unexplained 
absence,  and  the  delightful  mystery 
which  would  always  linger  about  us 
when  we  had  returned,  with  memories 
of  a  landscape  which  no  eyes  but  ours 
had  seen  these  many  years,  and  of 
rare  and  original  people  whose  voices 
had  been  silent  in  common  speech  so 


many  generations  that  only  a  few 
dreamers  like  ourselves  even  remem 
bered  that  they  had  ever  spoken.  We 
had  looked  along  the  library  shelves 
for  the  books  we  should  take  with  us, 
until  we  remembered  that  in  that  coun 
try  there  were  books  in  the  running 
streams.  Rosalind  had  gone  so  far  as 
to  lay  aside  a  certain  volume  of  ser 
mons  whose  aspiring  note  had  more 
than  once  made  music  of  the  momen 
tary  discords  of  her  life ;  but  I  reminded 
her  that  such  a  work  would  be  strangely 
out  of  place  in  a  forest  where  there  were 
sermons  in  stones.  Finally  we  had  de 
cided  to  leave  books  behind  and  go  free- 
minded  as  well  as  free-hearted.  It  had 
been  a  serious  question  how  much  and 
what  apparel  we  should  take  with  us, 
and  that  point  was  still  unsettled  when 
le  trees  came  to  their  blossom- 


apple 

ing.    It  is  a  theory  of 
chief  delight  of  a 


that  the 


mine 
vacation  from  one's 


usual  occupations  is  freedom  from 
the  tyranny  of  plans  and  dates,  and 
thus  much  Rosalind  had  conceded  to 


me* 


There  had  been  an  irresistible  charm 
\  in  the  very  secrecy  which  protected  our 
>  adventure  from  the  curious  and  unsym- 
)  pathetic  comment  of  the  world.  We 
found  endless  pleasure  in  imagining 
|  what  this  and  that  good  neighbour  of 
I  ours  would  say  about  the  folly  of  leav- 
|  ing  a  comfortable  house,  good  beds,  and 
v  a  well-stocked  larder  for  the  hard  fare 
|  and  uncertain  shelter  of  a  strange  forest. 
"  For  my  part,"  we  gleefully  heard  Mrs. 
Grundy  declare,  —  "for  my  part,  I  can 
not  understand  why  two  people  old 
enough  to  know  better  should  make 
tramps  of  themselves  and  go  rambling 
about  a  piece  of  woods  that  nobody 
ever  heard  of,  in  the  heat  of  the  mid 
summer."  Poor  Mrs.  Grundy!  We 
could  well  afford  to  laugh  merrily  at 


her  scornful  expostulations;  for  while 
she  was  repeating  platitudes  to  over 
dressed  and  uninteresting  people  at  Old- 
port,  we  should  be  making  sunny  play 
of  life  with  men  and  women  whose 
thoughts  were  free  as  the  wind,  and 
whose  hearts  were  fresh  as  the  dew 
and  the  stars.  And  often  when  our  talk 
had  died  into  silence,  and  the  wind  with 
out  whistled  to  the  fire  within,  we  had 
fallen  to  dreaming  of  those  shadowy 
aisles  arched  by  the  mighty  trees,  and 
of  the  splendid  pageant  that  should 
make  life  seem  as  great  and  rich  as 
Nature  herself*  I  confess  that  all  my 
dreams  came  to  one  ending;  that  I 
should  suddenly  awake  in  some  golden 
hour  and  really  know  Rosalind*  Of 
course  I  had  been  coming,  through  all 
these  years,  to  know  something  about 
Rosalind;  but  in  this  busy  world,  with 
work  to  be  done,  and  bills  to  be  paid, 
and  people  to  be  seen,  and  journeys  to 


be  made,  and  friction  and  worry  and 
fatigue  to  be  borne,  how  can  we  really 
come  to  know  one  another  ?  We  may 
meet  the  vicissitudes  and  changes  side 
by  side ;  we  may  work  together  in  the 
long  days  of  toil ;  our  hearts  may  repose 
on  a  common  trust,  our  thoughts  travel 
a  common  road ;  but  how  rarely  do  we 
come  to  the  hour  when  the  pressure  of 
toil  is  removed,  the  clouds  of  anxiety 
melt  into  blue  sky,  and  in  the  whole 
world  nothing  remains  but  the  sun  on 
the  flower,  and  the  song  in  the  trees, 
and  the  unclouded  light  of  love  in  the 
eyes? 

I  dreamed,  too,  that  in  finding  Rosa 
lind  I  should  also  find  myself.     There 
were  times  when  I  had  seemed  on  the 
very  point  of    making    this  discovery,  I 
but   something  had  always  turned  me  | 
aside  when  the  quest  was  most  eager 
and  promising ;   the  world  pressed  into 
the  seclusion  for  which  I  had  struggled, 


and  when  I  waited  to  hear  its  faintest 
murmur  die  in  the  distance,  suddenly  the 
tumult  had  risen  again,  and  the  dream 
of  self-communion  and  self-knowledge 
had  vanished*  To  get  out  of  the  uproar 
and  confusion  of  things,  I  had  often  fan 
cied,  would  be  like  exchanging  the  dusty 
mid-summer  road  for  the  shade  of  the 
woods  where  the  brook  calms  the  day 
with  its  pellucid  note  of  effortless  flow, 
and  the  hours  hide  themselves  from 
the  glances  of  the  sun*  In  the  Forest  of 
Arden  I  felt  sure  I  should  find  the  repose, 
the  quietude,  the  freedom  of  thought, 
which  would  permit  me  to  know  my 
self*  There,  too,  I  suspected  Nature 
had  certain  surprises  for  me;  certain 
secrets  which  she  has  been  holding 
back  for  the  fortunate  hour  when  her 
spell  would  be  supreme  and  unbroken. 
I  even  hoped  that  I  might  come  una 
ware  upon  that  ancient  and  perennial 
movement  of  life  upon  which  I  seemed 


nsa 


I 


always  to  happen  the  very  second  after 
it   had  been   suspended;    that  I  might 
hear    the    note    of    the    hermit    thrush 
breaking  out  of  the  heart  of  the  forest ; 
the  soulful   melody  of  the  nightingale, 
pathetic  with  unappeasable  sorrow.     In 
the  Forest   of   Arden,  too,  there  were 
unspoiled  men  and  women,  as  indiffer 
ent   to  the  fashion  of    the  world   and 
I  the  folly  of  the  hour  as  the  stars  to  the 
|  impalpable  mist  of  the  clouds ;  men  and 
|  women  who  spoke  the  truth,  and  saw 
the  fact,  and  lived  the  right;  to  whom 
I  love    and    faith   and  high  hopes  were 
more  real  than  the   crowns  of  which 
they  had  been  despoiled,  and  the  king- 
|doms  from  which  they  had    been  re 
jected.     All  this  I  had  dreamed,  and  I 
know  not  how  many  other  brave  and 
beautiful   dreams,  and  I  was  dreaming 
them    again    when    Rosalind    laid    the 
apple  blossoms  on  the  study  table,  and 
answered,  decisively,  "  To-morrow." 


"  To-morrow,"  I  repeated,  "to-mor 
row*  But  how  are  you  going  to 
get  ready  ?  If  you  sit  up  all  night  you 
cannot  get  through  with  the  packing. 
You  said  only  yesterday  that  your 
summer  dressmaking  was  shame 
fully  behind*  My  dear,  next  week 
is  the  earliest  possible  time  for  our 
going/' 

Rosalind  laughed  archly,  and  pushed 
the  apple  blossoms  over  the  wofully 
interlined  manuscript  of  my  new  article 
on  Egypt*  There  was  in  her  very 
attitude  a  hint  of  unsuspected  buoyancy 
and  strength;  there  was  in  her  eyes 
a  light  which  I  have  never  seen  under 
our  uncertain  skies.  The  breath  of  the 
apple  blossoms  filled  the  room,  and  a 
bobolink,  poised  on  a  branch  outside 
the  window,  suddenly  poured  a  rap 
turous  song  into  the  silence  of  the 
sweet  spring  day*  I  laid  down  my 
pen,  pushed  my  scattered  sheets  into 


the  portfolio,  covered  the  inkstand,  and  mKXSi^- 
laid  my  hand  in  hers,     "  Not  to-mor 
row/'  I  said,  "not  to-morrow.    Let  us 


Now  go  we  in  content 

To  liberty  and  not  to  banishment 


I  have  sometimes  entertained  myself 
by  trying  to  imagine  the  impressions 
which  our  modern  life  would  make 
upon  some  sensitive  mind  of  a  remote 
age.  I  have  fancied  myself  rambling 
about  New  York  with  Montaigne, 
and  taking  note  of  his  shrewd,  satirical 
comment*  I  can  hardly  imagine  him 
expressing  any  feeling  of  surprise,  much 
less  any  sentiment  of  admiration;  but 
I  am  confident  that  under  a  masque  of 
ironical  self-complacency  the  old  Gascon 
would  find  it  difficult  to  repress  his 
astonishment,  and  still  more  difficult  to 
adjust  his  mind  to  evident  and  impres 
sive  changes.  I  have  ventured  at  times 
to  imagine  myself  in  the  company  of 
another  more  remote  and  finely  organ 
ised  spirit  of  the  past,  and  pictured  to 
myself  the  keen,  dispassionate  criticism  of 
Pericles  on  the  things  of  modern  habit 
and  creation;  I  have  listened  to  his 
luminous  interpretations  of  the  changed 


conditions  which  he  saw  about  him;  I 
have  noted  his  unconcern  toward  the 
merely  material  advances  of  society,  his 
penetrative  insight  into  its  intellectual 
and  moral  developments.  A  mind  so 

;  capacious  and  open,  a  nature  so  trained 
and  poised,  could  not  be  otherwise 

'  than  self-contained    and   calm  even  in 

I 

the  presence  of    changes   so  vast   and 
t  manifold   as  those  which   have    trans- 
:  formed    society  since  the  days  of   the 
I  great  Athenian;  but  even  he  could  not 
I  be  quite   unmoved  if   brought   face  to 
I  face  with  a  life  so  unlike    that    with 
which    he    had    been    familiar;    there 
must    come,    even    to    one    who    feels 
|jj|  the  mastery  of  the  soul  over  all   con 
ditions,  a  certain  sense  of  wonder  and 
awe. 

It  was  with  some  such  feeling  that 
Rosalind  and  I  found  ourselves  in  the 
Forest  of  Arden.  The  journey  was  so 
soon  accomplished  that  we  had  no  time  I 


to  accustom  ourselves  to  the  changes 
between  the  country  we  had  left  and 
that  to  which  we  had  come.  We  had 
always  fancied  that  the  road  would  be 
long  and  hard,  and  that  we  should 
arrive  worn  and  spent  with  the  fatigues 
of  travel.  We  were  astonished  and  de 
lighted  when  we  suddenly  discovered 
that  we  were  within  the  boundaries  of 
the  Forest  long  before  we  had  begun 
to  think  of  the  end  of  our  journey.  We 
had  said  nothing  to  each  other  by  the 
way;  our  thoughts  were  so  busy  that 
we  had  no  time  for  speech.  There  were 
no  other  travellers;  everybody  seemed 
to  be  going  in  the  opposite  direction; 
and  we  were  left  to  undisturbed  medi 
tation.  The  route  to  the  Forest  is  one 
of  those  open  secrets  which  whosoever 
would  know  must  learn  for  himself;  it 
is  impossible  to  direct  those  who  do  not 
discover  for  themselves  how  to  make 
the  journey.  The  Forest  is  probably 


the  most  accessible  place  on  the  face 
of  the  earth,  but  it  is  so  rarely  visited 
that  one  may  go  half  a  lifetime  without 
meeting  a  person  who  has  been  there, 
I  have  never  been  able  to  explain  the 
fact  that  those  who  -have  spent  some 
§  time  in  the  Forest,  as  well  as  those 
who  are  later  to  see  it,  seem  to  recog 
nise  each  other  by  instinct,  Rosalind 
and  I  happen  to  have  a  large  circle  of 
acquaintances,  and  it  has  been  our  good 
fortune  to  meet  and  recognise  many  who 
were  familiar  with  the  Forest,  and  who 
were  able  to  tell  us  much  about  its 
localities  and  charms.  It  is  not  gener 
ally  known,  and  it  is  probably  wise 
not  to  emphasise  the  fact,  that  the  for 
tunate  few  who  have  access  to  the 
Forest  form  a  kind  of  secret  fraternity; 
a  brotherhood  of  the  soul  which  is  secret 
because  those  alone  who  are  qualified  for 
membership  by  nature  can  understand 
either  its  language  or  its  aims.  It  is  a 


very  strange  thing  that  the  dwellers  in 
the  Forest  never  make  the  least  attempt 
at  concealment,  but  that,  no  matter  how 
frank  and  explicit  their  statements  may 
be,  nobody  outside  the  brotherhood  ever 
(understands  where  the  Forest  lies,  or 
|  what  one  finds  when  he  gets  there. 
One  may  write  what  he  chooses  about 
life  in  the  Forest,  and  only  those  whom 
Nature  has  selected  and  trained  will 
understand  what  he  discloses;  to  all 
others  it  will  be  an  idle  tale  or  a  fairy 
story  for  the  entertainment  of  peo 
ple  who  have  no  serious  business  in 
hand. 

I  remember  well  the  first  time  I  ever 

understood   that    there    is  a  Forest   of 

Arden,  and  that  they  who  choose  may 

wander    through    its    arched    aisles    of 

[shade  and  live  at  their  will  in  its  deep 

;and    beautiful    solitude;    a    solitude    in 

:  which   nature   sits    like  a  friend   from 

whose    face   the    veil    has    been   with- 


drawn,  and  whose  strange  and  foreign 
utterance  has  been  exchanged  for  the 
most  familiar  speech.  Since  that  memo 
rable  afternoon  under  the  apple  trees  I 
have  never  been  far  from  the  Forest, 
although  at  times  I  have  lost  sight  of 
the  line  which  its  foliage  makes  against 
the  horizon.  I  have  always  intended 
to  cross  that  line  some  day,  and  to  ex 
plore  the  Forest;  perhaps  even  to  make 
a  home  for  myself  there.  But  one's 
dreams  must  often  wait  for  their  reali 
sation,  and  so  it  has  come  to  pass  that 
I  have  gone  all  these  years  without 
personal  familiarity  with  these  beautiful 
scenes.  I  have  since  learned  that  one 
never  comes  to  the  Forest  until  he  is 
thoroughly  prepared  in  heart  and  mind, 
and  I  understand  now  that  I  could  not 
have  come  earlier  even  if  I  had  made 
the  attempt.  As  it  happened,  I  con 
cerned  myself  with  other  things,  and 
never  approached  very  near  the  Forest, 


although  never  very  far  from  it.  I  was 
never  quite  happy  unless  I  caught  fre 
quent  glimpses  of  its  distant  boughs, 
and  I  searched  more  and  more  eagerly 
for  those  who  had  left  some  record  of 
their  journeys  to  the  Forest,  and  of 
their  life  within  its  magical  boundaries. 
I  discovered,  to  my  great  joy,  that  the 
libraries  were  full  of  books  which  had 
much  to  say  about  the  delights  of 
Arden:  its  enchanting  scenery;  the 
music  of  its  brooks;  the  sweet  and 
refreshing  repose  of  its  recesses;  the 
noble  company  that  frequent  it.  I  soon 
found  that  all  the  greater  poets  have 
been  there,  and  that  their  lines  had 
caught  the  magical  radiance  of  the  sky; 
and  many  of  the  prose  writers  showed 
the  same  familiarity  with  a  country  in 
which  they  evidently  found  whatever 
was  sweetest  and  best  in  life.  I  came 
to  know  at  last  those  whose  knowledge 
of  Arden  was  most  complete,  and  I  put 


them  in  a  place  by  themselves;  a  cor 
ner  in  the  study  to  which  Rosalind 
and  I  went  for  the  books  we  read  to 
gether*  I  would  gladly  give  a  list  of 
these  works  but  for  the  fact  I  have 
already  hinted  —  that  those  who  would 
understand  their  references  to  Arden 
will  come  to  know  them  without  aid 
from  me.  and  that  those  who  would 
not  understand  could  find  nothing  in 
them  even  if  I  should  give  page  and 
paragraph.  It  was  a  great  surprise  to 
me,  when  I  first  began  to  speak  of  the 
Forest,  to  find  that  most  people  scouted 
the  very  idea  of  such  a  country;  many 
did  not  even  understand  what  I  meant. 
Many  a  time,  at  sunset,  when  the  light 
has  lain  soft  and  tender  on  the  distant 
Forest,  I  have  pointed  it  out,  only  to  be 
told  that  what  I  thought  was  the  Forest 
was  a  splendid  pile  of  clouds,  a  shining 
mass  of  mist.  I  came  to  understand  at 
last  that  Arden  exists  only  for  a  few, 


and  I  ceased  to  talk  about  it  save  to 
•:j  those  who  shared  my  faith.  Gradually 
1 1  came  to  number  among  my  friends 
many  who  were  in  the  habit  of  making 
*|  frequent  journeys  to  the  Forest,  and 
Jjnot  a  few  who  had  spent  the  greater 
|  part  of  their  lives  there,  I  remember 
lithe  first  time  I  saw  Rosalind  I  saw 
nthe  light  of  the  Arden  sky  in  her 

jieyes,  the  buoyancy  of  the  Arden  air 
Kin  her  step,  the  purity  and  freedom  of 
I  the  Arden  life  in  her  nature.  We  built 
iour  home  within  sight  of  the  Forest, 

[and  there  was   never  a  day  that  we 
jdid  not  talk  about  and  plan  our  long- 
^J  delayed  journey  thither, 

"After  all/'   said  Rosalind,   on  that 

| first  glorious  morning  in  Arden,  "as  I 

jlook   back  I  see  that  we  were  always 

'on  the  way  here." 


m 


Well,  this  is  the  Forest  of  Arden 


The  first  sensation  that  comes  to 
one  who  finds  himself  at  last  within 
the  boundaries  of  the  Forest  of  Arden 
is  a  delicious  sense  of  freedom.  I  am 
not  sure  that  there  is  not  a  certain 
sympathy  with  outlawry  in  that  first 
exhilarating  consciousness  of  having 
gotten  out  of  the  conventional  world, 
—  the  world  whose  chief  purpose  is 
that  all  men  shall  wear  the  same  coat, 
eat  the  same  dinner,  repeat  the  same 
polite  commonplaces,  and  be  forgotten 
at  last  under  the  same  epitaph.  Forests 
have  been  the  natural  refuge  of  outlaws 
from  the  earliest  time,  and  among  the 
most  respectable  persons  there  has  al 
ways  been  an  ill-concealed  liking  for 
Robin  Hood  and  the  whole  fraternity 
of  the  men  of  the  bow.  Truth  is  above 
all  things  characteristic  of  the  dwellers 
in  Arden,  and  it  must  be  frankly  con 
fessed  at  the  beginning,  therefore,  that 
the  Forest  is  given  over  entirely  to 


outlaws;  those  who  have  committed 
some  grave  offence  against  the  world 
of  conventions,  or  who  have  voluntarily 
gone  into  exile  out  of  sheer  liking  for  a 
freer  life*  These  persons  are  not  vulgar 
law-breakers ;  they  have  neither  blood 
on  their  hands  nor  ill-gotten  gains  in 
their  pockets ;  they  are,  on  the  contrary, 
people  of  uncommonly  honest  bearing 
and  frank  speech.  Their  offences  evi 
dently  impose  small  burden  on  their 
conscience,  and  they  have  the  air  of 
those  who  have  never  known  what  it 
is  to  have  the  Furies  on  one's  track. 
Rosalind  was  struck  with  the  charming 
naturalness  and  gaiety  of  every  one 
we  met  in  our  first  ramble  on  that 
delicious  and  never-to-be-forgotten  morn 
ing  when  we  arrived  in  Arden.  There 
was  neither  assumption  nor  diffidence; 
there  was  rather  an  entire  absence  of 
any  kind  of  self-consciousness.  Rosa 
lind  had  fancied  that  we  might  be  quite 


&mr:» 
'^£s&$ 


alone 


expected 


to  have  a  few  days  to  ourselves.  We 
had  even  planned  in  our  romantic  mo 
ments —  and  there  is  always  a  good 
deal  of  romance  among  the  dwellers  in 
Arden  —  a  continuation  of  our  wedding 
journey  during  the  first  week. 

"It  will  be  so  much  more  delightful 
than  before/'  suggested  Rosalind,  "be 
cause  nobody  will  stare  at  us,  and  we 
shall  have  the  whole  world  to  our 
selves."  In  that  last  phrase  I  recog 
nised  the  ideal  wedding  journey,  and 
was  not  at  all  dismayed  at  the  prospect 
of  having  no  society  but  Rosalind's  for 
a  time.  But  all  such  anticipations  were 
dispelled  in  an  hour.  It  was  not  that 
we  met  many  people,  —  it  is  one  of  the 
delights  of  the  Forest  that  one  finds 
society  enough  to  take  away  the  sense 
of  isolation,  but  not  enough  to  destroy 
the  sweetness  of  solitude ;  it  was  rather 
that  the  few  we  met  made  us  feel  at 


once    that   we   had   equal    claim   with 
themselves    on    the   hospitality    of   the! 
place.    The  Forest  was   not  only  freefl 
to  every  comer,  but  it  evidently  gave| 
peculiar   pleasure    to    those  who  were! 
living  in  it  to  convey  a  sense  of  owner 
ship  to  those  who  were    arriving  for 
the  first  time*      Rosalind  declared  that 
she  felt   as  much   at   home  as  if   she 
had   been   born  there;  and   she  added 
that   she  was    glad   she    had    brought 
only   the    dress    she  wore.      I  was  a 
little   puzzled   by  the    last  remark;    it 
seemed    not     entirely    logical.      But    I 
saw  presently  that  she  was  expressing 
the  fellowship  of  the  place,  which  for 
bade  that  one  should  possess  anything! 
that  was  not  in  use,   and  that,  there-: 
fore,  was  not  adding  constantly  to  the; 
common  stock  of  pleasure.     Concerning  • 
the   feeling    of    having    been    born    in 
Arden,  I  became   convinced   later  that! 
there   was  good    reason  for    believing 

3° 


; 
. 


that  everybody  who  loved  the  place 
had  been  born  there,  and  that  this  fact 
explained  the  home  feeling  which  came 
to  one  the  instant  he  set  foot  within 
the  Forest.  It  is,  in  fact,  the  only  place 
I  have  known  which  seemed  to  belong 
to  me  and  to  everybody  else  at  the 
same  time;  in  which  I  felt  no  alien 
influence.  In  our  own  home  I  had 
something  of  the  same  feeling,  but 
when  I  looked  from  a  window  or  set 
foot  from  a  door  I  was  instantly  op 
pressed  with  a  sense  of  foreign  owner 
ship.  In  the  great  world  how  little 
could  I  call  my  own!  Only  a  few 
feet  of  soil  out  of  the  measureless  land 
scape;  only  a  few  trees  and  flowers 
out  of  all  that  boundless  foliage!  I 
seemed  driven  out  of  the  heritage  to 
which  I  was  born;  cheated  out  of  my 
birthright  in  the  beauty  of  the  field  and 
the  mystery  of  the  Forest ;  put  off  with 
the  beggarly  portion  of  a  younger  son 


when  I  ought  to  have  fallen  heir  to 
the  kingdom.  My  chief  joy  was  that 
from  the  little  space  I  called  my  own 
I  could  see  the  whole  heavens ;  no 
man  could  rob  me  of  that  splendid 
vision. 

In  Arden,  however,  the  question  of 
ownership  never  comes  into  one's 
thoughts;  that  the  Forest  belongs  to 
you  gives  you  a  deep  joy,  but  there 
is  a  deeper  joy  in  the  consciousness 
that  it  belongs  to  everybody  else. 

The  sense  of  freedom,  which  comes 
as  strongly  to  one  in  Arden  as  the 
smell  of  the  sea  to  one  who  has  made 
a  long  journey  from  the  inland,  hints, 
I  suppose,  at  the  offence  which  makes 
the  dwellers  within  its  boundaries  out 
laws*  For  one  reason  or  another,  they 
have  all  revolted  against  the  rule  of 
the  world,  and  the  world  has  cast 
them  out.  They  have  offended  smug 
respectability,  with  its  passionless  de- 


votion  to  deportment;  they  have  out 
raged  conventional  usage,  that  carefully 
devised  system  by  which  small  natures 
attempt  to  bring  great  ones  down  to 
their  own  dimensions;  they  have  scan 
dalised  the  orthodoxy  which,  like  Mem- 
non,  has  lost  the  music  of  its  morning, 
and  marvels  that  the  world  no  longer 
listens;  they  have  derided  venerable 
prejudices,  —  those  ugly  relics  by  which 
some  men  keep  in  remembrance  their 
barbarous  ancestry;  they  have  refused 
to  follow  flags  whose  battles  were  won 
or  lost  ages  ago;  they  have  scorned  to 
compromise  with  untruth,  to  go  with 
the  crowd,  to  acquiesce  in  evil  "  for  the 
good  of  the  cause/*  to  speak  when  they 
ought  to  keep  silent,  and  to  keep  silent 
when  they  ought  to  speak.  Truly  the 
lists  of  sins  charged  to  the  account  of 
Arden  is  a  long  one,  and  were  it  not 
that  the  memory  of  the  world,  concerned 
chiefly  with  the  things  that  make  for 


••• 


its  comfort,  is  a  short  one,  it  would  go 
ill  with  the  lovers  of  the  Forest*     More 
than  once  it  has  happened  that   some 
offender  has  suffered  so  long  a  banish^ 
ment    that    he    has    taken    permanent 
refuge  in  Arden,  and  proved  his  citi 
zenship  there  by   some  act  worthy  of 
Hits  glorious    privileges.     In  the   Forest 
one    comes   constantly   upon   traces  of 
$j  those  who,  like  Dante  and  Milton,  have 
\  I  found  there  a  refuge  from  the  Philis- 
IJtinism  of  a  world  that   often  hates  its 
I  children  in    exact    proportion   to    their 
lability  to  give  it  light.    For  the  most 
i  part,  however,  the  outlaws  who  frequent 
'the  Forest  suffer  no  longer  banishment 
'than  that  which  they  impose  on  them- 
i  selves.     They  come  and    go    at   their 
iown  sweet  will;   and  their   coming,  I 
isuspect,   is  generally   a  matter  of  their  i 
[own  choosing.     The  world  still   loves 
!  darkness  more  than  light ;  but  it  rarely 
i  nowadays  falls  upon  the  lantern-bearer 


34 


and    beats   the  life   out  of  him,  as   in 
the  good  old  times/'    The  world  has 
grown  more  decent  and  polite,  although 
£  still  at  heart  no  doubt  the  bad  old  world 
which  stoned  the   prophets.     It   sneers 
where  it  once   stoned;    it   rejects    and 
scorns  where  it  once  beat  and  burned. 
And  so  Arden  has  become  a   refuge, 
I  not    so    much    from    persecution    and 
I  hatred  as  from  ignorance,  indifference, 
i  and  the  small  wounds  of  small  minds 
|  bent    upon    stinging   that   which    they 
!  cannot  destroy. 


IV 


. . .  Fleet  the  time  carelessly,  as  they  did  in  the 
golden  world 


Rosalind  and  I  have  always  been 
planning  to  do  a  great  many  pleasant 
things  when  we  had  more  time*  Dur 
ing  the  busy  days  when  we  barely 
found  opportunity  to  speak  to  each 
other  we  were  always  thinking  of  the 
better  days  when  we  should  be  able  to 
sit  hours  together  with  no  knock  at  the 
door  and  no  imperative  summons  from 
the  kitchen.  Some  man  of  sufficient 
eminence  to  give  his  words  currency 
ought  to  define  life  as  a  series  of  inter 
ruptions.  There  are  a  good  many 
valuable  and  inspiring  things  which 
can  only  be  done  when  one  is  in  the 
mood,  and  to  secure  a  mood  is  not 
always  an  easy  matter;  there  are 
moods  which  are  as  coy  as  the  most 
high-spirited  woman,  and  must  be 
wooed  with  as  much  patience  and 
tact:  and  when  the  illusive  prize  is 
gained,  one  holds  it  by  the  frailest  ten- 
An  interruption  diverts  the  cur- 


ure. 


39 


i^A3K3ti>] 


rent,  cuts  the  golden  thread,  breaks 
the  exquisite  harmony.  I  have  often 
thought  that  Dante  was  far  less  unfor- 
tunate  than  the  world  has  judged  him 
to  be.  If  he  had  been  courted  and 
crowned  instead  of  rejected  and  exiled, 
it  might  have  been  that  his  genius 
would  have  missed  the  conditions  which 
gave  it  immortal  utterance.  Left  to  him 
self,  he  had  only  his  own  nature  to 
reckon  with ;  the  world  passed  him  by, 
and  left  him  to  the  companionship  of  his 
sublime  and  awful  dreams.  To  be  left 
alone  with  one's  self  is  often  the  highest 
good  fortune.  Moreover,  I  detest  being 
hurried:  it  seems  to  me  the  most  offen 
sive  way  in  which  we  are  reminded 
of  our  mortality;  there  is  time  enough 
if  we  know  how  to  use  it.  People 
who,  like  Goethe,  never  rest  and  never 
haste,  complete  their  work  and  escape 
the  friction  of  it. 

One  of    the  most    delightful    things 


about  life  in  Arden  is  the  absence  of 

any  sense  of  haste;  life  is  a  matter  of 

being    rather  than   of  doing,  and  one 

shares  the  tranquillity  of  the  great  trees 

that  silently  expand  year  by  year.     The 

|  fever    and    restlessness    are    gone,    the 

|  long  strain  of  nerve  and  will  relaxed ; 

'I  a  delicious   feeling   of   having  strength 

1  and  time  enough  to  live  one's  life  and 

I  do  one's  work  fills  one  with  a  deep  and 

|j  enduring  sense  of  repose. 

Rosalind,  who  had  been  busy  about 
j  so  many  things  that  I  sometimes  almost 
lost  sight  of  her  for  days  together,  found 
time  to  take  long  walks  with  me,  to 
watch  the  birds  and  the  clouds,  and 
talk  by  the  hour  about  all  manner  of 
pleasant  trifles.  I  came  to  feel,  after  a 
time,  that  just  what  I  anticipated  would 
happen  in  Arden  had  happened.  I  was 
fast  becoming  acquainted  with  her.  We 
spent  days  together  in  the  most  delight 
ful  half-vocal  and  half-silent  fellowship: 


sometimes  into   lovely   recesses,  where 
mutual   confidences    seemed  as  natural 
as    the    air;   sometimes  into    solitudes 
where    talk    seemed    an    impertinence, 
and  we  were  silent  under  the   spell  of 
rustling   leaves   and   thrilling   melodies 
coming  from  we  knew  not  what  hid- 
•|  den  minstrelsy.     But  whether  silent  or 
|  speaking,  we  were  fast  coming  to  know 
|  each  other.    I  saw  many  traits  in  her, 
|  many   characteristic   habits  and   move- 
\  ments  which  I  had  never  noted  before; 
and  I  was  conscious  that  she  was  mak 
ing  similar  discoveries  in  me.     These 
mutual     revelations    absorbed   us    dur 
ing    our    first    days    in    the   Forest; 
and    they    confirmed    the    impression 
which  I    brought  with  me    that    half 
the  charm  of  people  is  lost    under  the 
pressure    of    work    and    the    irritation 
of  haste.      We  rarely  know  our  best 


friends  on  their  best  side;  our  vision 
of  their  noblest  selves  is  constantly 
obscured  by  the  mists  of  preoccupation 
and  weariness. 

In  Arden,  life  is  pitched  on  the  natural 
key;  nobody  is  ever  hurried;  nobody 
is  ever  interrupted;  nobody  carries  his 
work  like  a  pack  on  his  back  instead 
of  leaving  it  behind  him  as  the  sun 
leaves  the  earth  when  the  day  is  over 
and  the  calm  stars  shine  in  the  un 
broken  silence  of  the  sky.  Rosalind 
and  I  were  entirely  conscious  of  the 
transformation  going  on  within  us,  and 
were  not  slow  to  submit  ourselves  to 
its  beneficent  influence.  We  felt  that 
Arden  would  not  put  all  its  resources 
into  our  hand  until  we  had  shaken 
off  the  dust  and  parted  from  the  fret 
of  the  world  we  had  left  behind. 

In  those  first  inspiring  days  we  went 
oftenest  to  the  heart  of  the  pines,  where 
the  moss  grew  so  deep  that  our  move- 


43 


ments  were  noiseless ;  where  the  light  fell 
in  subdued  and  gentle  tones  among  the 
closely  clustered  trees;  and  where  no 
sound  ever  reached  us  save  the  organ 
music  of  the  great  boughs  when  the 
wind  evoked  their  sublime  harmonies. 
Many  a  time,  as  we  have  sat  silent 
while  the  tones  of  that  majestic  sym 
phony  rose  and  fell  about  us,  we  seemed 
to  become  a  part  of  the  scene  itself;  we 
felt  the  unfathomed  depth  of  a  music 
produced  by  no  conscious  thought, 
wrought  out  by  no  conscious  toil,  but 
akin,  in  its  spontaneity  and  natural 
ness,  with  the  fragrance  of  the  flower. 
And  with  these  thrilling  notes  there 
came  to  us  the  thought  of  the  calm, 
reposeful,  irresistible  growth  of  Nature; 
never  hasting,  never  at  rest;  the  silent 
spreading  of  the  tree,  the  steady  burn 
ing  of  the  star,  the  noiseless  flow  of  the 
river!  Was  not  this  sublime  uncon 
sciousness  of  time,  this  glorious  appro- 


44 


priation  of  eternity,  something  we  had 
missed  all  our  lives,  and,  in  missing 
it,  had  lost  our  birthright  of  quiet  hours, 
calm  thought,  sweet  fellowship,  ripen 
ing  character?  The  fever  and  tumult 
of  the  world  we  had  left  were  discords 

I  in  a  strain  that  had  never  yielded  its 

3  music  before. 


For  nature  beats  in  perfect  tune, 
And  rounds  with  rhyme  her  every  rune, 
Whether  she  work  in  land  or  sea, 
Or  hide  underground  her  alchemy, 
Thou  canst  not  wave  thy  staff  in  air, 

Or  dip  thy  paddle  in  the  lake, 
But  it  carves  the  bow  of  beauty  there, 

And  the  ripples  in  rhymes  the  oars  for 
sake. 

After    one    of    these    long,   delicious  | 
days  in  the  heart  of  the  pines,  Rosalind 
slipped  her  hand  in  mine  as  we  walked 
I  slowly  homeward. 

"This  is  the  first  day  of  my  life," 
she  said. 


And  this  our  life,  exempt  from  public  haunt, 
Finds  tongues  in  trees,  books  in  the  running  brooks, 
Sermons  in  stones,  and  good  in  everything 


It   was  one  of  those  entrancing  morn 
ings   when    the    earth    seems  to   have 
been  made  over  under  cover  of  night, 
and  one  drinks  the  first  draft  of  a  new 
experience  when  he  sees  it  by  the  light 
of  a  new  day.     Such  mornings  are  not  | 
uncommon  in  Arden,  where  the  nightly  1 
dews  work  a  perpetual  miracle  of  fresh- r 
ness.     On  this   particular  morning  we 
had  strayed  long   and  far,  the  silence 
and  solitude   of    the   woods    luring  us  I 
hour  after  hour  with  unspoken  promises! 
to  the  imagination.     We  had  come  at! 
length  to  a  place  so    secluded,  so  re 
mote    from    stir   and    sound,  that  one; 
might  dream  there  of  the  sacredness  of 
ancient  oracles  and  the  revels  of  ancient  ] 
gods. 

Rosalind  had  gathered  wild   flowers! 
along  the  way,  and  sat  at  the  base  of| 
a  great  tree  intently  disentangling   her! 
treasures.     With  that  figure  before  me, 
I  thought  of  nearer  and  more   sacred 


49 


things  than  the  old  woodland  gods  that 
might  have  strayed  that  way  centuries 
ago;  I  had  no  need  to  recall  the  van 
ished  times  and  faiths  to  interpret  the 
spirit  of  an  hour  so  far  from  the  com 
monplaces  of  human  speech,  so  free 
from  the  passing  moods  of  human  life. 
The  sweet  unconsciousness  of  that  face, 
bent  over  the  mass  of  wild  flowers,  and 
akin  to  them  in  its  unspoiled  loveliness, 
was  to  that  hour  and  place  like  the 
illuminated  capital  in  the  old  missal;  a 
ray  of  colour  which  unlocked  the  dark 
I  mystery  of  the  text*  When  one  can 
see  the  loveliness  of  a  wild  flower, 
I  and  feel  the  absorbing  charm  of  its 
|  sentiment,  one  is  not  far  from  the 
kingdom  of  Nature* 

As  these  fancies  chased  one  another 
across  my  mind,  lying  there  at  full 
length  on  the  moss,  I,  too,  seemed  to 
lose  all  consciousness  that  I  had  ever 
touched  life  at  any  point  than  this,  or 


that  any  other  hour  had  ever  pressed 
its  cup  of  experience  to  my  lips.  The 
great  world  of  which  I  was  once  part 
disappeared  out  of  memory  like  a  mist 
that  recedes  into  a  faint  cloud  and  lies 
faint  and  far  on  the  boundaries  of  the 
day;  my  own  personal  life,  to  which 
I  had  been  bound  by  such  a  multitude 
of  gossamer  threads  that  when  I  tried 
to  unloose  one  I  seemed  to  weave  a 
hundred  in  its  place,  seemed  to  sink 
below  the  surface  of  consciousness.  I 
ceased  to  think,  to  feel ;  I  was  conscious 
only  of  the  vast  and  glorious  world  of 
tree  and  sky  which  surrounded  me.  I 
felt  a  thrill  of  wonder  that  I  should  be 
so  placed.  I  had  often  lain  thus  under 
other  trees,  but  never  in  such  a  mood 
this.  It  was  as  if  I  had  detached 


as 


myself  from  the  hitherto  unbroken  cur 
rent  of  my  personal  life,  and  by  some 
miracle  of  that  marvellous  place  become 
part  of  the  inarticulate  life  of  Nature. 


Clouds  and  trees,  dim  vistas  of  shadow 
and  flower-starred  space  of  sunlight, 
were  no  longer  alien  to  me;  I  was 
akin  with  the  vast  and  silent  movement 
of  things  which  encompassed  me.  No 
new  sound  came  to  me,  no  new  sight 
broke  on  my  vision;  but  I  heard  with 
ears,  and  I  saw  with  eyes,  to  which  all 
other  sounds  and  sights  had  ceased  to 
be.  I  cannot  translate  into  words  the 
mystery  and  the  thrill  of  that  hour 
when,  for  the  first  time,  I  gave  myself 
wholly  into  the  keeping  of  Nature,  and 
she  received  me  as  her  child.  What  I 
felt,  what  I  saw  and  heard,  belong  only 
to  that  place;  outside  the  Forest  of 
Arden  they  are  incomprehensible.  It  is 
enough  to  say  that  I  had  parted  with 
all  my  limitations,  and  freed  myself  from 
all  my  bonds  of  habit  and  ignorance 
and  prejudice;  I  was  no  longer  worn 
and  spent  with  work  and  emotion  and 
impression;  I  was  no  longer  prisoned 


•  •     , ,  • 


within  the  iron  bars  of  my  own  person 
ality.  I  was  as  free  as  the  bird ;  I  was 
as  little  bound  to  the  past  as  the  cloud 
that  an  hour  ago  was  breathed  out  of 
the  heart  of  the  sea;  I  was  as  joyous, 
as  unconscious,  as  wholly  given  to  the 
rapture  of  the  hour  as  if  I  had  come 
into  a  world  where  freedom  and  joy 
were  an  inalienable  and  universal  pos 
session.  I  did  not  speculate  about  the 
great  fleecy  clouds  that  moved  like 
galleons  in  the  ethereal  sea  above  me; 
I  simply  felt  their  celestial  beauty,  the 
radiancy  of  their  unchecked  movement, 
the  freedom  and  splendour  of  the  inex 
haustible  play  of  life  of  which  they  were 
part.  I  asked  no  questions  of  myself 
about  the  great  trees  that  wove  the 
garments  of  the  magical  forest  about 
me;  I  felt  the  stir  of  their  ancient  life, 
rooted  in  the  centuries  that  had  left  no 
record  in  that  place  save  the  added  girth 
and  the  discarded  leaf ;  I  had  no  thought 


about  the  bird  whose  note  thrilled  the 
forest 'save  the  rapture  of  pouring  out 
without  measure  or  thought  the  joy 
that  was  in  me;  I  felt  the  vast  irresis 
tible  movement  of  life  rolling,  wave 
after  wave,  out  of  the  unseen  seas  be 
yond,  obliterating  the  faint  divisions  by 
which,  in  this  working  world,  we  count 
the  days  of  our  toil,  and  making  all  the 
ages  one  unbroken  growth;  I  felt  the 
measureless  calm,  the  sublime  repose,  of 
that  uninterrupted  expansion  of  form 
and  beauty,  from  flower  to  star  and 
from  bird  to  cloud;  I  felt  the  mighty 
impulse  of  that  force  which  lights  the 
sun  in  its  track  and  sets  the  stars 
to  mark  the  boundaries  of  its  way. 
Unbroken  repose,  unlimited  growth, 
inexhaustible  life,  measureless  force,  un 
searchable  beauty  —  who  shall  feel  these 
things  and  not  know  that  there  are  no 
words  for  them!  And  yet  in  Arden 
they  are  part  of  every  man's  life! 


54 


And  all  the  time  Rosalind  sat  weav 
ing  her  wild  flowers  into  a  loose  wreath* 

"I  must    not    take    them  from  this  j| 
place/*   she    said,  as  she  bound    them  | 
about  the  venerable  tree,  as  one  would 
bind  the  fancy  of  the  hour   to    some 
eternal  truth. 

44  Yesterday,"  she  added,  as  she  sat 
down  again  and  shook  the  stray  leaves 
and  petals  from  her  lap  —  "yesterday  \ 
was  the  first  day  of  my  life :  to-day  is  \ 
the  second." 

It  is  one  of  the  delights  of  Arden  | 
that  one  does  not  need  to  put  his  whole 
thought  into  words  there ;  half  the  need 
of  language  vanishes  when  we  say  only 
what  we  mean,  and  what  we  say  is 
heard  with  sympathy  and  intelligence. 
Rosalind  and  I  were  thinking  the  same 
thought.  Yesterday  we  had  discovered 
that  an  open  mind,  freedom  from  work 
and  care  and  turmoil,  make  it  possible 
for  people  to  be  their  true  selves  and  to 


know  each  other.  To-day  we  had 
discovered  that  nature  reveals  herself 
only  to  the  open  mind  and  heart;  to 
all  others  she  is  deaf  and  dumb.  The 
worldling  who  seeks  her  never  sees  so 
much  as  the  hem  of  her  garment;  the 
egotist,  the  self-engrossed  man,  searches 
in  vain  for  her  counsel  and  consolation ; 
the  over-anxious,  fretful  soul  finds  her 
indifferent  and  incommunicable.  We 
may  seek  her  far  and  wide,  with  minds 
intent  upon  other  things,  and  she  will 
forever  elude  us;  but  on  the  morning 
we  open  our  windows  with  a  free  mind, 
she  is  there  to  break  for  us  the  seal  of 
her  treasures,  and  to  pour  out  the  per 
fume  of  her  flowers.  She  is  cold,  re 
mote,  inaccessible  only  so  long  as  we 
close  the  doors  of  our  hearts  and  minds 
to  her.  With  the  drudges  and  slaves 
of  mere  getting  and  saving  she  has 
nothing  in  common;  but  with  those 

who   hold  their   souls  above  the  price 

56 


of  the  world  and  the  bribe  of  success 
she  loves  to  share  her  repose,  her 
strength,  and  her  beauty.  In  Arden 
Rosalind  and  I  cared  as  little  for  the 
world  we  had  left  as  children  intent 
upon  daisies  care  for  the  dust  of  the 

,  road  out  of  which  they  have  come  into 

1  the  wide  meadows. 


VI 


Here  feel  we  but  the  penalty  of  Adam, 
The  season's  difference,  as  the  icy  fang 
And  churlish  chiding  of  the  winter  wind, 
Which,  when  it  bites  and  blows  upon  my  body, 
Even  till  I  shrink  with  cold,  I  smile  and  say, 
This  is  no  flattery:  these  are  counsellors 
That  feelingly  persuade  me  what  I  am 


If  the  ideal  conditions  of  life,  of  which 
most  of  us  dream,  could  be  realised,  the 
result  would  be  a  padded  and  luxurious 
existence,  well-housed,  well-fed,  well- 
dressed,  with  all  the  winds  of  heaven 
tempered  to  indolence  and  cowardice, 
We  are  saved  from  absolute  shame  by 
the  consciousness  that  if  such  a  life 
were  possible  we  should  speedily  revolt 
against  the  comforts  that  flattered  the 
body  while  they  ignored  the  soul.  In 
Arden  there  is  no  such  compromise 
with  our  immoral  desires  to  get  results 
f  without  work,  to  buy  without  paying 
I  for  what  we  receive.  Nature  keeps 
no  running  accounts  and  suffers  no 
man  to  get  in  her  debt ;  she  deals  with 
us  on  the  principles  of  immutable  right 
eousness;  she  treats  us  as  her  equals, 
and  demands  from  us  an  equivalent  for 
every  gift  or  grace  of  sight  or  sound 
she  bestows.  She  rejects  contemptu 
ously  the  advances  of  the  weaklings 


61 


who  aspire  to  become  her  beneficiaries 
without  having  made  good  their  claim 
by  some  service  or  self-denial;  she  re 
wards  those  only  who,  like  herself,  find 
music  in  the  tempest  as  well  as  in  the 
summer  wind;  joy  in  arduous  service 
as  well  as  in  careless  ease*  A  world 
in  which  there  were  no  labours  to  be 
accomplished,  no  burdens  to  be  borne, 
no  storms  to  be  endured,  would  be  a 
world  without  true  joy,  honest  pleasure, 
or  noble  aspiration.  It  would  be  a 
fool's  paradise. 

The  Forest  of  Arden  is  not  without 
its  changes  of  weather  and  season* 
Rosalind  and  I  had  fancied  that  it  was 
always  summer  there,  and  that  sunlight 
reigned  from  year's  end  to  year's  end; 
if  we  had  been  told  that  storms  some 
times  overshadowed  it,  and  that  the  icy 
fang  of  winter  is  felt  there,  we  should 
have  doubted  the  report.  We  had  a 
good  deal  to  learn  when  we  first  went 


to  Arden ;  in  fact,  we  still  have  a  great 
deal  to  learn  about  this  wonderful  coun 
try,  in  which  so  many  of  the  ideals  and 
standards  with  which    we  were    once 
familiar  are  reversed*    It  is  one  of  the 
blessed  results  of  living  in  the  Forest 
i  that  one  is  more  and  more  conscious 
3  that  he  does  not  know,  and  more  and 
*  more  eager    to    learn.     There    are  no 
I  shams  of  any  sort  in  Arden,  and  all 
pride  in  concealing  one's  ignorance  dis 
appears;   one's   chief  concern  is  to  be 
known  precisely  as  he  is*     We  were  a 
\  little  sensitive  at  first,  a  little  disposed 
to  be   cautious   about  asking  questions 
that   might  reveal  our   ignorance;    but 
we  speedily  lost    the   false  shame  we 
had   brought   with    us    from    a  world 
where  men  study  to  conceal,  as  a  means 
of  protecting,  the  things  that  are  most 
precious  to  them.    When    we  learned 
that  in    the  Forest    nobody  vulgarises 

one's  affairs   by  making   them    matter 

63 


of  common  talk,  that  all  the  meannesses 
of  slander  and  gossip  and  misinterpreta 
tion  are  unknown,  and  that  charity, 
courtesy,  and  honour  are  the  unfailing 
law  of  intercourse,  we  threw  down  our 
reserves  and  experienced  the  refreshing 
freedom  and  sympathy  of  full  knowledge 
between  man  and  man. 

After  a  long  succession  of  golden  days 
we  awoke  one  morning  to  the  familiar 
sound  of  rain  on  the  roof;  there  was 
no  mistake  about  it;  it  was  raining  in 
Arden!  Rosalind  was  so  incredulous 
that  I  could  see  she  doubted  if  she 
were  awake;  and  when  she  had  satis 
fied  herself  of  that  fact  she  began  to 
ask  herself  whether  we  had  been  really 
in  the  Forest  at  all;  whether  we  had 
not  been  dreaming  in  a  kind  of  double 
consciousness,  and  had  now  come  to 
the  awakening  which  should  rob  us  of 
this  golden  memory.  At  last  we  recog 
nised  the  fact  that  we  were  still  in 
64 


Arden,  and  that  it  was  raining.  It 
was  a  melancholy  awakening,  and  we 
were  silent  and  depressed  at  breakfast; 
for  the  first  time  no  birds  sang,  and 
no  sunlight  flickered  through  the  leaves 
and  brought  the  day  smiling  to  our 
very  door.  The  rain  fell  steadily,  and 
when  the  wind  swept  through  the  trees 
a  sound  like  a  sob  went  up  from  the 
Forest.  After  breakfast,  for  lack  of 
active  occupation,  we  lighted  a  few 
sticks  in  the  rough  fireplace,  and  found 
ourselves  gradually  drawn  into  the  cir 
cle  of  cheer  in  the  little  room.  The 
great  world  of  Nature  was  for  a  mo 
ment  out  of  doors,  and  there  seemed 
no  incongruity  in  talking  about  our 
own  experiences;  we  recalled  the  days 
in  the  world  we  had  left  behind;  we 
remembered  the  faces  of  our  neigh 
bours;  we  reminded  each  other  of  the 
incidents  of  our  journey;  we  retold,  in 
antiphonal  fashion,  the  story  of  our 


stay  in  the  Forest;  we  grew  eloquent 
as  we  described,  one  after  another,  the 
noble  persons  we  had  met  there;  our 
hearts  kindled  as  we  became  conscious 
of  the  wonderful  enrichment  and  en 
largement  of  life  that  had  come  to  us  ; 
and  as  the  varied  splendours  of  the 
days  and  scenes  of  Arden  returned  in 
our  memories,  the  spell  of  the  Forest 
came  upon  us,  and  the  mysterious 
cadence  of  the  rain,  falling  from  leaf 
to  leaf,  added  another  and  deeper  tone 
to  the  harmony  of  our  Forest  life, 
The  gloom  had  gone;  we  had  all  the 
delight  of  a  new  experience  in  our 
hearts. 

"I  am  glad  it  rains,"  Rosalind  said, 
as  she  gave  the  fire  one  of  her  vigor 
ous  stirrings;  "I  am  glad  it  rains:  I 
don't  think  we  should  have  realised 
how  lovely  it  is  here  if  we  were  not 
shut  in  from  time  to  time.  One  is 
played  upon  by  so  many  impressions 


66 


that  one  must  escape  from  them  to 
understand  how  beautiful  they  are. 
And  then  I'm  not  sure  that  even 
|  dark  days  and  rain  have  not  something 
which  sunshine  and  clear  skies  could  | 
]not  give  us."  As  usual,  Rosalind  had  J 
^spoken  my  thought  before  I  had  made  $ 
•  it  quite  clear  to  myself;  I  began  to  1 
i  feel  the  peculiar  delight  of  our  comfort  ;• 
j  in  the  heart  of  that  great  forest  when  i 
'•  the  storm  was  abroad.  The  monotone  I 
J  of  the  rain  became  rhythmic  with  some  p; 
f  ancient,  primeval  melody,  which  the  | 
I  woods  sang  before  their  solitude  had 
||been  invaded  by  the  eager  feet  of  men 
always  searching  for  something  which 
they  do  not  possess.  I  felt  the  spell 
of  that  mighty  life  which  includes  the 
tempest  and  the  tumult  of  winds  and 
waves  among  the  myriad  voices  with 
which  it  speaks  its  marvellous  secret. 
Half  the  meaning  would  go  out  of 
Nature  if  no  storms  ever  dimmed  the 


light  of  stars  or  vexed  the  calm  of 
summer  seas*  It  is  the  infinite  variety 
of  Nature  which  fits  response  to  every 
need  and  mood,  renews  for  ever  the 
freshness  of  contact  with  her,  and 
holds  us  by  a  power  of  which  we 
never  weary  because  we  never  exhaust 
its  resources. 

"After  all,  Rosalind/'  I  said,  "it  was 
not  the  storms  and  the  cold  which  made 
our  old  life  hard,  and  gave  Nature  an 
unfriendly  aspect;  it  was  the  things 
in  our  human  experience  which  gave 
tempest  and  winter  a  meaning  not  their 
own.  In  a  world  in  which  all  hearts  beat 
true,  and  all  hands  were  helpful,  there 
would  be  no  real  hardship  in  Nature. 
It  is  the  loss,  sorrow,  weariness,  and 
disappointment  of  life  which  give  dark 
days  their  gloom,  and  cold  its  icy  edge, 
and  work  its  bitterness.  The  real  sor 
rows  of  life  are  not  of  Nature's  mak 
ing;  if  faithlessness  and  treachery  and 


68 


every  sort  of  baseness  were  taken  out 
of  human  lives,  we  should  find  only  a 
healthy  and  vigorous  joy  in  such  hard 
ship  as  Nature  imposes  upon  us.  Upon 
men  of  sound,  sweet  life,  she  lays  only 
such  burdens  as  strength  delights  to 
carry,  because  in  so  doing  it  increases 
itself/' 

" That  is  true/'  said  Rosalind.  "The 
day  is  dark  only  when  the  mind  is 
dark;  all  weathers  are  pleasant  when 
the  heart  is  at  rest.  There  are  rainy 
days  in  Arden,  but  no  gloomy  ones; 
there  are  probably  cold  days,  but  none 
that  chill  the  soul/' 

I  do  not  know  whether  it  was  Rosa 
lind's  smile  or  the  sudden  breaking  of 
the  sun  through  the  clouds  that  made 
the  room  brilliant;  probably  it  was 
both.  Rosalind  opened  the  lattice,  and 
I  saw  that  the  rain  had  ceased.  The 
drops  still  hung  on  every  leaf,  but  the 
clouds  were  breaking  into  great  shining 


masses,  and  the  blue  of  the  sky  was 
of  unsearchable  purity  and  depth.  The 
sun  poured  a  flood  of  light  into  the 
heart  of  the  Forest,  and  suddenly  every 
tiny  drop,  that  a  moment  ago  might 
•  have  seemed  a  symbol  of  sorrow,  held 
the  radiant  sun  on  its  little  disk,  and 
every  sphere  shone  as  if  a  universe  [ 
of  fairy  creation  had  been  suddenly 
breathed  into  being.  And  the  splendour 
touched  Rosalind  also. 


vn 

. .  .  Pray  you,  if  you  know, 

Where  in  the  purlieus  of  this  forest  stands 

A  sheep-cote  fenc'd  about  with  olive  trees  ? 

»  4  »  «  «  « 

The  rank  of  osiers  by  the  murmuring  stream 
Left  on  your  right  hand,  brings  you  to  the  place. 
But  at  this  hour  the  house  doth  keep  itself 


Years  ago,  when  we  were  planning 
to  build  a  certain  modest  little  house, 
Rosalind  and  I  found   endless    delight1 
in  the   pleasures  of    anticipation.      Byj 
day  and  by  night  our  talk  came  backj 
to  the  home  we  were  to  make  for  our 
selves.     We  discussed  plan  after  plan 
and    found    none   quite  to  our    mind; 
we  examined  critically  the  houses  we 
visited;  we  pored  over  books;  we  laid 
the  experience  of  our  friends  under  con 
tribution;    and  when   at  last   we   had 
agreed  upon  certain  essentials,  we  called ! 
an  architect  to  our  aid,  and  fondly  im 
agined  that  now  the  prelude  of  discus 
sion  and  delay  was  over,  we  should 
find    unalloyed    delight    in   seeing    our 
imaginary  home  swiftly  take  form  and  I 
become  a  thing  of  reality.    Alas  for  our  j 
hopes !    Expense  followed  fast  upon  ex 
pense  and  delay  upon  delay.      There 
were  endless  troubles  with  masons  and 
carpenters    and    plumbers;    and   when 

73 


our  dream  was  at  last  realised,  the 
charm  of  it  had  somehow  vanished; 
so  much  anxiety,  care,  and  vexation 
had  gone  into  the  process  of  building 
that  the  completed  structure  seemed  to 
be  a  monument  of  our  toil  rather  than 
a  refuge  from  the  world* 

After  this  sad  experience,  Rosalind 
and  I  contented  ourselves  with  build 
ing  castles  in  Spain;  and  so  great  has 
been  our  devotion  to  this  occupation 
that  we  are  already  joint  owners  of 
immense  possessions  in  that  remote  and 
beautiful  country.  It  is  a  singular  cir 
cumstance  that  the  dwellers  in  Arden, 
almost  without  exception,  are  holders 
of  estates  in  Spain.  I  have  never  seen 
any  of  these  splendid  properties;  in 
fact,  Rosalind  and  I  have  never  seen 
our  own  castles;  but  I  have  heard 
very  full  and  graphic  descriptions  of 
those  distant  seats.  In  imagination  I 
have  often  seen  the  great  piles  crown- 


74 


ing  the  crests  of  wooded  hills,  whence 
noble  parks  and  vast  landscapes  lay 
spread  out;  I  have  been  thrilled  by 
the  notes  of  the  hunting-horn  and  dis 
cerned  from  afar  the  cavalcade  of  beau 
tiful  women  and  gallant  men  winding 
its  way  to  the  gates  of  the  courtyard; 
I  have  seen  splendid  banners  afloat 
from  turret  and  casement ;  I  have  seen 
lights  flashing  at  night  and  heard  faint 
murmurs  of  music  and  laughter.  Truly 
they  are  fortunate  who  own  castles  in 
Spain ! 

In  the  Forest  of  Arden  there  is  no 
such  brave  show  of  battlement  and 
rampart.  In  all  our  rambles  we  never 
came  upon  a  castle  or  palace;  in  fact, 
so  far  as  I  remember,  no  one  ever  spoke 
of  such  structures.  They  seem  to  have 
no  place  there.  Nor  is  it  hard  to  un 
derstand  this  singular  divergence  from 
the  ways  of  a  world  whose  habits  and 
standards  are  continually  reversed  in 


•  •• 


the  Forest.     In  castle  and  palace,  the 
wealth    and  splendour  of  life  —  every 
thing  that  gives  it  grace  and  beauty  to 
the  eye  —  are  treasured  within  massive  ? 
walls  and  protected  from  the  common  | 
gaze  and    touch.      Every    great    park,  | 
with  its  reaches  of  inviting:  sward  and  I 

r          f  f 

its  groups  or  noble  trees,  seems  to  say  , 
to  those  who  pass  along  the  highway:  | 
"We  are  too  rare  for  your  using/'  j 
Every  stately  palace,  with  its  wonderful  | 
paintings  and  hangings,  its  sculpture 
and  furnishings,  locks  its  massive  gates 
against  the  great  world  without,  as  if 
that  which  it  guards  were  too  precious 
for  common  eyes.  In  Arden  no  one 
dreams  of  fencing  off  a  lovely  bit  of 
open  meadow  or  a  cluster  of  great  trees ; 
private  ownership  is  unknown  in  the 
Forest.  Those  who  dwell  there  are 
tenants  in  common  of  a  grander  estate 
than  was  ever  conquered  by  sword, 
purchased  by  gold,  or  bequeathed  by 


a  the  laws  of  descent*  There  are  homes 
for  privacy,  for  the  sanctities  of  love 
and  friendship;  but  the  wealth  of  life 
is  common  to  all*  Instead  of  elegant 
houses,  and  a  meagre,  inferior  public  | 
life,  as  in  the  great  cities  of  the  world, 
there  are  modest  homes  and  a  noble 
common  life.  If  the  houses  in  our  cities 
were  simple  and  homelike  in  their  ap 
pointments,  and  all  their  treasures  of 
art  and  beauty  were  lodged  in  noble 
structures,  open  to  every  citizen,  the 
world  would  know  something  of  the 
habits  of  those  who  find  in  Arden  that 
satisfying  thought  of  life  which  is  de 
nied  them  among  men,  —  moderation, 
simplicity,  frugality  for  our  private  and 
personal  wants ;  splendid  profusion,  noble 
lavishness,  beautiful  luxury  for  that  com 
mon  life  which  now  languishes  because 
so  few  recognise  its  needs.  When  will 
the  world  learn  the  real  lesson  of  civili 
sation,  and,  for  the  cheap  and  ignoble 


77 


aspect  of  modern  cities,  bring  back  the 
stateliness  of  Rome  and  ,the  beauty  of 
that  wonderful  city  whose  poetry  and 
art  were  but  the  voices  of  her  common 
life? 

The  murmuring  stream  at  our  door 
in  Arden  whispered  to  us  by  day  and 
by  night  the  sweet  secret  of  the  happi- 
j  ness  in  the  Forest,  where  no  man  strives 
!  to  outshine  his  neighbour  or  to  encumber 
I  the  free  and  joyous  play  of  his  life  with 
\  those  luxuries  which  are  only  another 
I  name  for  care.     Our  modest  little  home 
sheltered  but  did  not  enslave  us ;  it  held 
a  door  open  for  all  the  sweet  ministries 
of  affection,  but  it  was  barred  against  | 
anxiety  and  care;    birds    sang   at    its 
flower-embowered    windows,    and    the 
fragrance  of  the  beautiful  days  lingered 
there,  but  no  sound  from  the  world  of  1 
those  that  strive  and  struggle  ever  en-  f 
tered.    We  were  joyous  as  children  in 

a   home   which   protected    our    bodies, 

78 


while  it  set  our  spirits  at  liberty ;  which 
gave  us  the  sweetness  of  rest  and  seclu 
sion,  while  it  left  us  free  to  use  the 
ample  leisure  of  the  Forest  and  to  drink 
deep  of  its  rich  and  healthful  life*  Vine- 
covered,  overshadowed  by  the  pine, 
with  the  olive  standing  in  friendly  neigh 
bourhood,  our  home  in  Arden  seemed 
at  the  same  time  part  of  the  Forest  and 
part  of  ourselves.  If  it  had  grown  out 
of  the  soil,  it  could  not  have  fitted  into 
the  landscape  with  less  suggestion  of 
artifice  and  construction ;  indeed,  Nature 
had  furnished  all  the  materials  and 
when  the  simple  structure  was  complete 
she  claimed  it  again  and  made  it  her 
own  with  endless  device  of  moss  and 
vine.  Without,  it  seemed  part  of  the 
Forest;  within,  it  seemed  the  visible 
history  of  our  life  there.  Friends  came 
and  went  through  the  unlatched  door; 
morning  broke  radiant  through  the  lat 
ticed  window;  the  seasons  enfolded  it 


79 


, 


with  their  changing  life ;  our  own  fel- 
lowship  of    mind    and    heart   made  it 
unspeakably  sacred.     Love  and  loyalty  ||! 
within;  noble  friends  at  the  hearthstone;  | 
soft  or  shining  heavens  above ;  mystery  fa  i 
of  forest  and  music  of  stream  without :  1 
5  this  is  home  in  Arden* 


vm 


. .  books  in  the  running  brooks 


In  the  days  before  we  went  to  Arden, 
Rosalind  and  I  had  often  wondered 
what  books  we  should  find  there,  and 
we  had  anticipated  with  the  keenest 
curiosity  that  in  the  mere  presence  or 
absence  of  certain  books  we  should 
discover  at  last  the  final  principle  of 
criticism,  the  absolute  standard  of  liter 
ary  art.  Many  a  time  as  we  sat  before 
the  study  fire  and  finished  the  reading 
of  some  volume  that  had  yielded  us 
unmixed  delight,  we  had  said  to  each 
other  that  we  should  surely  find  it  in 
Arden,  and  read  it  again  in  an  atmos 
phere  in  which  the  most  delicate  and 
beautiful  meanings  would  become  as 
clear  as  the  exquisite  tracery  of  frost 
on  the  study  windows.  That  we  should 
find  all  the  classics  there  we  had  not  the 
least  doubt ;  who  could  imagine  a  com 
munity  of  intelligent  persons  without 
Homer  and  Dante  and  Shakespeare  and 

Wordsworth!    How  the  volumes  would 

83 


be  housed  we  did  not  try  to  divine ;  but 
that  we  should  find  them  there  we  did 
not  think  of  doubting.  Our  chief  thought 
was  of  the  principle  of  selection,  long  P 
sought  after  by  lovers  of  books,  but  f' 
never  yet  found,  which  we  were  certain 
would  be  easily  discovered  when  we 
came  to  look  along  the  shelves  of  the 
libraries  in  Arden.  With  what  delight 
we  anticipated  the  long  days  when  we 
should  read  together  again,  and  amid 
such  novel  surroundings,  the  books  we 
|  loved!  For,  although  our  home  con 
tained  few  luxuries,  it  had  fed  the  mind ; 
there  was  not  a  great  soul  in  literature 
whose  name  was  not  on  the  shelves  of 
our  library,  and  the  companionships  of 
that  room  made  our  quiet  home  more 
rich  in  gracious  and  noble  influences 
than  many  a  palace* 

And  yet  we  had  been  in  the  Forest 
several  months  before  we  even  thought 

of  books;   so  absorbed  were  we  in  the 

84 


noble  life  of  the  place,  in  the  inspiring 
society  about  us.  There  came  a  morn 
ing,  however,  when,  as  I  looked  out 
into  the  shadows  of  the  deep  woods,  I 
recalled  a  wonderful  line  of  Dante's  that 
must  have  come  to  the  poet  as  he  passed 
through  some  silent  and  sombre  wood 
land  path.  Suddenly  I  remembered  that 
months  had  passed  since  we  had  opened 
a  book ;  we  whose  most  inspiring  hours 
had  once  been  those  in  which  we  read 
together  from  some  familiar  page.  For 
an  instant  I  felt  something  akin  to 
remorse;  it  seemed  as  if  I  had  been 
disloyal  to  friends  who  had  never 
failed  me  in  any  time  of  need.  But 
as  I  meditated  on  this  strange  forget- 
fulness  of  mine,  I  saw  that  in  Arden 
books  have  no  place  and  serve  no 
purpose.  Why  should  one  read  a  trans 
lation  when  the  original  work  lies  open 
and  legible  before  him?  Why  should 
one  watch  the  reflections  in  the  shad- 


owy  surface  of  the  lake  when  the 
heavens  shine  above  him  ?  Why  should 
one  linger  before  the  picturesque  landr 
scape  which  art  has  imperfectly  trans 
ferred  to  canvas  when  the  scene,  with 
all  its  elusive  play  of  light  and  shade, 
lies  outspread  before  him?  I  became 
conscious  that  in  Arden  one  lives 
habitually  in  the  world  which  books 
are  always  striving  to  portray  and  in 
terpret  ;  that  one  sees  with  his  own 
eyes  all  that  the  eyes  of  the  keenest 
observer  have  ever  seen;  that  one 
feels  in  his  own  soul  all  the  greatest 
soul  has  ever  felt.  That  which  in  the 
outer  world  most  men  know  only  by 
report,  in  Arden  each  one  knows  for 
himself.  The  stories  of  travellers  cease 
to  interest  us  when  we  are  at  last  within 
the  borders  of  the  strange,  far  country. 

Books  are,  at  the  best,  faint  and 
imperfect  transcriptions  of  Nature  and 
life;  when  one  comes  to  see  Nature 

86 


- 


x~j 


as  she  is  with  his  own  eyes,  and  toj 
enter  into  the  secrets  of  life,  all  tran-j 
scriptions  become  inadequate*    He  who 
has  heard  the  mysterious  and  haunting 
monotone   of   the   sea  will   never   rest 
content  with  the  noblest    harmony  in 
which    the    composer    seeks    to    blend 
those  deep,  elusive  tones ;  he  who  has  | 
sat  hour  by  hour  under  the    spell  of  1 
the    deep    woods    will    feel    that    spell ! 
shorn    of    its    magical    power    in    the  I 
noblest  verse  that  ever  sought  to  con- 1 
tain  and  express  it ;   he  who  has  once  £ 
looked  with  clear,  unflinching  gaze  into 
the  depths  of  human  life  will  find  only 
vague  shadows  of  the  mighty  realities 
in  the  greatest  drama  and  fiction.    The 
eternal  struggle  of  art  is  to  utter  these 
unutterable  things;  the  immortal  thirst 
of  the  soul  will  lead  it  again  and  again 
to    these    ancient  fountains,  whence  it 
will  bring  back  its   handful    of  water 

in  vessels  curiously  carven  by  the  hands 

•  8; 


of  imagination.  But  no  cup  of  man's 
making  will  ever  hold  all  that  fountain 
has  to  give,  and  to  those  who  are 
really  athirst  these  golden  and  beauti 
fully  wrought  vessels  are  insufficient ; 
they  must  drink  of  the  living  stream. 
In  Arden  we  found  these  ancient  and 
perennial  fountains;  and  we  drank  deep 
and  long.  There  was  that  in  the  mys 
tery  of  the  woods  which  made  all 
poetry  seem  pale  and  unreal  to  us; 
there  was  that  in  life,  as  we  saw  it  in 
the  noble  souls  about  us,  which  made 
all  records  and  transcriptions  in  books 
seem  cold  and  superficial.  What  need 
had  we  of  verse  when  the  things  which  | 
the  greatest  poets  had  seen  with  vision 
no  clearer  than  ours  lay  clear  and  un-  j| 
speakably.  beautiful  before  us?  What 
had  fiction  or  history  for  us,  upon  whom 
the  thrilling  spell  of  the  deepest  human 
living  was  laid  I  Rosalind  and  I  were 
hourly  meeting  those  whose  thoughts 


had  fed  the  world  for  generations,  and 
whose  names  were  on  all  lips,  but  they 
never  spoke  of  the  books  they  had  writ 
ten,  the  pictures  they  had  painted,  the 
music  they  had  composed.  And,  strange 
to  say,  it  was  not  because  of  these 
splendid  works  that  we  were  drawn 
to  them;  it  was  the  quality  of  their 
natures,  the  deep,  compelling  charm  of 
their  minds,  which  filled  us  with  joy  in 
their  companionship.  In  Arden  it  is  a 
small  matter  that  Shakespeare  has 
written  "Hamlet,"  or  Wordsworth  the 
44  Ode  on  Immortality  " ;  not  that  which 
they  have  accomplished  but  that  which 
they  are  in  themselves  gives  these 
names  a  lustre  in  Arden  such  as  shines 
from  no  crown  of  fame  in  the  outer 
world.  Rosalind  and  I  had  dreamed 
that  we  might  meet  some  of  those 
whose  words  had  been  the  food  of 
immortal  hope  to  us,  but  we  almost 
dreaded  that  nearer  acquaintance  which 


might  dispel  the  illusion  of  superiority. 
How  delighted  were  we  to  discover  that 
not  only  are  great  souls,  really  under 
stood,  greater  than  all  their  works,  but 
that  the  works  were  forgotten  and 
nothing  was  remembered  but  the  soul! 
Not  as  those  who  are  fed  by  the  bounty 
of  the  king,  but  as  kings  ourselves,  were 
we  received  into  this  noble  company. 
Were  we  not  born  to  the  same  inheri 
tance  ?  Were  not  Nature  and  life  ours 
as  truly  as  they  were  Shakespeare's  and 
Wordsworth's?  As  we  sat  at  rest 
under  the  great  arms  of  the  trees,  or 
roamed  at  will  through  the  woodland 
paths,  the  one  thought  that  was  com 
mon  to  us  all  was,  not  how  nobly  these 
scenes  had  been  pictured  and  spoken, 
but  how  far  above  all  language  of  art 
they  were,  and  how  shallow  runs  the 
stream  of  speech  when  these  mysterious 
treasures  of  feeling  and  insight 
launched  upon  it! 


are 


every 
worth  resorted 


The  friendship  of  Nature  is  matched 
in  Arden  with  human  friendships,  as 
sincere,  as  void  of  disguise  and  flattery, 
as  stimulating  and  satisfying.  There 
are  times  when  every  sensitive  person 
wounded  by  misunderstanding  of 


is 


motives,  by  lack  of  sympathy,  by  indif- 
Jference  and  coldness;  such  hours  came 
^  not  infrequently  to  Rosalind  and  myself 
;j  in  the  old  days  before  we  set  out  for  the 
j!  Forest.     We  found  unfailing  consolation 
I  and  strength  in  our  common  faith  and 
$[  purpose,  but  the  frigidity  of  the  atmos 
phere  made  us  conscious  at  times  of  the 
effort  one  puts  forth  to  simply  sustain 
the  life  of   his  ideals,  the  charm  and! 
sweetness  of  those  secret  hopes  which 
feed  the  soul     What  must  it  be  to  live 
among  those  who  are  quick  to  recog 
nise  nobility  of  motive,  to  conspire  withj 
aspiration,  to  believe  in  the  best   and| 
highest  in  each  other?    It  was  to  taste! 
such  a  life  as  this,  to  feel  the  consoling  { 


93 


power  of  mutual  faith  and  the  inspi 
ration  of  a  common  devotion  to  the 
ideals  that  were,  dearest  to  us,  that  our 
thoughts  turned  so  often  and  with  such 
longing  to  Arden.  In  such  moments 
we  opened  with  delight  certain  books 
which  were  full  of  the  joy  and  beauty  of 
the  Forest  life ;  books  which  brought  J 
back  the  dreams  that  were  fading  out 
and  touched  us  afresh  with  the  un 
searchable  charm  and  beauty  of  the 
Ideal,  Surely  there  could  no  better 
fortune  befall  us  than  to  be  able  to  call 
these  great  ministering  spirits  our 
friends. 

But,  strong  as  was  our  longing,  we 
were  not  without  misgivings  when  we 
first  found  ourselves  in  Arden.  In  this 
commerce  of  ideas  and  hopes,  what  had 
we  to  give  in  exchange?  How  could 


carrying  into  the  Forest  the  limitations 
of  our  old  life,  and  among  all  the  glad 
surprises  that  awaited  us  there  was 
none  so  joyful  as  the  discovery  that  our 
misgivings  vanished  as  soon  as  we 
began  to  know  our  neighbours.  Neither 
of  us  will  ever  forget  the  perfect  joy  of 
those  earliest  meetings;  a  joy  so  great 
that  we  wondered  if  it  could  endure. 
There  is  nothing  so  satisfying  as  quick 
comprehension  of  one's  hopes,  instant 
sympathy  with  them,  absolute  frankness 
of  speech,  and  the  brilliant  and  stimu 
lating  play  of  mind  upon  mind  where 
there  is  complete  unconsciousness  of  self 
and  complete  absorption  in  the  idea  and  • J- 
the  hour.  There  was  something  almost  ||| 
intoxicating  in  those  first  wonderful 
talks  in  Arden;  we  seemed  suddenly 
not  only  to  be  perfectly  understood  by 
others,  but  for  the  first  time  to  under 
stand  ourselves;  the  horizons  of  our 
mental  world  seemed  to  be  swiftly 


95 


receding,  and  new  continents  of  truth 
were  lifted  up  into  the  clear  light  of 
consciousness.  All  that  was  best  in  us 
was  set  free ;  we  were  confident  where 
we  had  been  uncertain  and  doubtful; 
we  were  bold  where  we  had  been 
almost  cowardly.  We  spoke  our  deep 
est  thought  frankly ;  we  drew  from  their 
hiding-places  our  noblest  dreams  of  the 
life  we  hoped  to  live  and  the  things  we 
hoped  to  achieve ;  we  concealed  nothing, 
reserved  nothing,  evaded  nothing;  we 
were  desirous  above  all  things  that 
others  should  know  us  as  we  knew  our 
selves.  It  was  especially  restful  and 
refreshing  to  speak  of  our  failures  and 
weaknesses,  of  our  struggles  and  de 
feats  ;  for  these  experiences  of  ours  were 
instantly  matched  by  kindred  experi 
ences,  and  in  the  common  sympathy 
and  comprehension  a  new  kind  of 
strength  came  to  us.  The  humiliation 

of  defeat  was  shared,  we  found,  by  even 

96 


the  greatest ;  and  that  which  made  these 
noble  souls  what  they  were  was  not 
freedom  from  failure  and  weakness,  but 
steadfast  struggle  to  overcome  and 
achieve.  As  the  life  of  a  new  hope 
filled  our  hearts,  we  remembered  with  a 
sudden  pain  the  world  out  of  which  we 
had  escaped,  where  every  one  hides  his 
weakness  lest  it  feed  a  vulgar  curiosity, 
and  conceals  his  defeats  lest  they  be 
used  to  destroy  rather  than  to  build  him 
up. 

With  what  delight  did  we  find  that  in 
Arden  the  talk  touched  only  great 
themes,  in  a  spirit  of  beautiful  candour 
and  unaffected  earnestness!  To  have 
exchanged  the  small  personal  talk  from' 
which  we  had  often  been  unable  to! 
escape  for  this  simple,  sincere  discourse 
on  the  things  that  were  of  common 
interest  was  like  exchanging  the  cloud- 
enveloped  lowland  for  some  sunny 
mountain  slope,  where  every  breath 

97 


was  vital  and  one  mused  on  half  a  con 
tinent  spread  out  at  his  feet.  There  is 
no  food  for  the  soul  but  truth,  and  we 
were  filled  with  a  mighty  hunger  when 
we  understood  for  how  long  a  time  we 
had  been  but  half  fed.  A  new  strength 
came  to  us,  and  with  it  an  openness  of 
mind  and  a  responsiveness  of  heart  that 
made  life  an  inexhaustible  joy.  We 
were  set  free  from  the  weariness  of  old 
struggles  to  make  ourselves  understood; 
we  were  no  longer  perplexed  with 
doubts  about  the  reality  of  our  ideas; 
we  had  but  to  speak  the  thought  that 
was  in  us,  and  to  live  fearlessly  and 
joyously  in  the  hour  that  was  before  us. 
Frank  speaking,  absolute  candour,  that 
would  once  have  wounded,  now  only 
cheered  and  stimulated;  the  spirit  of 
entire  helpfulness  drives  out  all  morbid 
self-consciousness.  Differences  no  longer 
embitter  when  courtesy  and  faith  are 
universal  possessions. 


There  is  nothing  more  sacred  than 
friendship,  and  it  is  impossible  to  profane 
it  by  drawing  the  veil  from  its  minis 
tries.     The  charm  of  a  perfectly  noble 
companionship  between  two  souls  is  as 
real  as  the  perfume  of  a  flower,  and  as 
impossible  to  convey  by  word  or  speech ; 
Nature  has  made  its  sanctity  inviolable 
by  making  it  forever  impossible  of  reve 
lation  and  transference.     I  cannot  trans 
late    into    any    language    the    delicate 
charm,    the   inexhaustible    variety,    the 
noble  fidelity  to  truth,  the  vigour   and 
splendour  of  thought,  the  unfailing  sym 
pathy,  of  our  Arden  friendships;    they 
are  a  part  of  the  Forest,  and  one  must 
seek  them  there.      It   would   vulgarise 
these  fellowships  to  catalogue  the  great 
names,  always  familiar  to  us,  and  yet 
which  gained  another  and  a  better  famil 
iarity  when  they  ceased  to  recall  famous 
persons    and    became    associated    with 
those  who  sat  at   our    hearthstone 


our 

99 


or 


gathered  about  our  simple  board.  Ros 
alind  was  sooner  at  home  in  this  noble 
company  than  I:  she  had  far  less  to 
learn;  but  at  last  I  grew  into  a  famil 
iarity  with  my  neighbours  which  was  all 
the  sweeter  to  me  because  it  registered 
a  change  in  myself  long  hoped  for,  often 
despaired  of,  at  last  accomplished*  To 
be  at  one  with  Nature  was  a  joy  which 
made  life  seem  rich  beyond  all  earlier 
thought;  but  when  to  this  there  was 
added  the  fellowship  of  spirits  as  true 
and  great  as  Nature  herself,  the  wine  of 
life  overflowed  the  exquisite  cup  into 
which  an  invisible  hand  poured  it. 
The  days  passed  like  a  dream  as  we 
strayed  together  through  the  woodland 
paths;  sometimes  in  some  deep  and 
shadowy  glen  silence  laid  her  finger  on 
our  lips,  and  in  a  common  mood  we 
found  ourselves  drawn  together  without 
speech.  Often  at  night,  when  the 
magic  of  the  moon  has  woven  all 


~mWpX 

mmlm 


manner  of  enchantments  about  us,  we 
have  lingered  hour  after  hour  under  that 
supreme  spell  which  is  felt  only  when 
soul  speaks  with  soul. 


X 


•  .  .  there  *s  no  clock  in  the  forest 


There  were  a  great  many  days  in 
Arden  when  we  did  absolutely  nothing ; 
we  awoke  without  plans ;  we  fell  asleep 
without  memories.  This  was  especially 
true  of  the  earlier  part  of  our  stay  in  the 
Forest;  the  stage  of  intense  enjoyment 
of  new-found  freedom  and  repose. 
There  was  a  kind  of  rapture  in  the 
possession  of  our  days  that  was  new  to 
us;  a  sense  of  ownership  of  time  of 
which  we  had  never  so  much  as 
dreamed  when  we  lived  by  the  clock. 
Those  tiny  ornamental  hands  on  the 
delicately  painted  dial  were  our  task 
masters,  disguised  under  forms  so  dainty 
and  fragile  that,  while  we  felt  their 
tyranny,  we  never  so  much  as  suspected 
their  share  in  our  servitude.  Silent 
themselves,  they  issued  their  commands 
in  tones  we  dared  not  disregard;  fash 
ioned  so  cunningly,  they  ruled  us  as 
with  iron  sceptres;  moving  within  so 
small  a  circle,  they  sent  us  hither  and 


yon  on  every  imaginable  service.  They 
severed  eternity  into  minute  fragments, 
and  dealt  it  out  to  us  minute  by  minute 
like  a  cordial  given  drop  by  drop  to  the 
dying;  they  marked  with  relentless 
exactness  the  brief  periods  of  our  leisure 
and  indicated  the  hours  of  our  toil.  We 
could  not  escape  from  their  vigilant  and 
inexorable  surveillance;  day  and  night 
they  kept  silent  record  beside  us,  meas 
uring  out  the  golden  light  of  summer  in 
their  tiny  balances,  and  doling  out  the 
pittance  of  winter  sunshine  with  nig 
gardly  reluctance.  They  hastened  to 
the  end  of  our  joys,  and  moved  with 
funereal  slowness  through  the  appointed 
times  of  our  sorrow.  They  ruled  every 
season,  pervaded  every  day,  recorded 
every  hour,  and,  like  misers  hoarding  a 
treasure,  doled  out  our  birthright  of 
leisure  second  by  second ;  so  that,  being 
rich,  we  were  always  impoverished; 
inheritors  of  vast  fortune,  we  were  put 


106 


ll^-'-^'l 


I"""  ""'" 


.«p 


r'a'Pffi 
ijgj 

r-yTTSri 

fc4£& 


off  with  a  meagre  income;  born  free, 
we  were  servants  of  masters  who 
neither  ate  nor  slept,  that  they  might 
never  for  a  second  surrender  their 
overseership. 

There  are  no  clocks  in  Arden;  the 
sun  bestows  the  day,  and  no  imperti 
nence  of  men  destroys  its  charm  by 
calculating  its  value  and  marking  it  with 
a  price.  The  only  computers  of  time 
are  the  great  trees  whose  shadows 
register  the  unbroken  march  of  light 
from  east  to  west.  Even  the  days  and 
nights  lost  that  painful  distinctness 
which  they  had  for  us  when  they  gave 
us  a  constant  sense  of  loss,  an  incessant 
apprehension  of  change  and  age.  Their 
shining  procession  leaves  no  such 
records  in  Arden;  they  come  like  the 
waves  whose  ceaseless  flow  sings  of  the 
boundless  sea  whence  they  come.  They 
bring  no  consciousness  of  ebbing  years 
and  joys  and  strength;  they  bring 


107 


rather  a  sense  of  eternal  resource  and 
beneficence.  In  Arden  one  never  feels 
in  haste;  there  is  always  time  enough 
and  to  spare ;  in  fact,  the  word  time  is 
never  used  in  the  vernacular  of  the 
Forest  except  when  reference  is  made  to 
the  enslaved  world  without.  There 
were  moments  at  the  beginning  when 
we  felt  a  little  bewildered  by  our  free 
dom,  and  I  think  Rosalind  secretly 
longed  for  the  familiar  tones  of  the 
cuckoo  clock  which  had  chimed  so 
many  years  in  and  out  for  us  in  the  old 
days.  One  must  get  accustomed  even 
to  good  fortune,  and  after  one  has  been 
confined  within  the  narrow  limits  of  a 
little  plot  of  earth  the  possession  of  a 
continent  confuses  and  perplexes.  But 
men  are  born  to  good  fortune  if  they  but 
knew  it,  and  we  were  soon  reconciled  to 
the  possession  of  inexhaustible  wealth. 
We  felt  the  delight  of  a  sudden  exchange 
of  poverty  for  richness,  a  swift  transition 


108 


from  bondage  to  freedom.  Eternity  was 
ours,  and  we  ceased  to  divide  it  into 
fragments,  or  to  set  it  off  into  duties  and 
work.  We  lived  in  the  consciousness  of 
a  vast  leisure;  a  quiet  happiness  took 
the  place  of  the  old  anxiety  to  always  do 
at  the  moment  the  thing  that  ought  to  be 
done;  we  accepted  the  days  as  gifts  of 
joy  rather  than  as  bringers  of  care. 

It  was  delightful  to  fall  asleep  lulled 
by  the.  rustle  of  the  leaves,  and  to 
awake,  without  memory  of  care  or 
pressure  of  work,  to  a  day  that  had 
brought  nothing  more  discordant  into 
the  Forest  than  the  singing  of  birds. 
We  rose  exhilarated  and  buoyant,  and 
breakfasted  merrily  under  a  great  oak; 
sometimes  we  lingered  far  on  into  the 
morning,  yielding  ourselves  to  the  spell 
of  the  early  day  when  it  no  longer 
proses  of  work  and  duty,  but  sings  of 
freedom  and  ease  and  the  strength  that 
makes  a  play  of  life.  Often  we  strayed 


109 


without  plan  or  purpose,  as  the  winding 
paths  of  the  Forest  led  us;  happy  and 
care-free  as  children  suddenly  let  loose 
in  fairyland.  We  discovered  moss- 
grown  paths  which  led  into  the  very 
heart  of  the  Forest,  and  we  pressed  on 
silently  from  one  green  recess  to  another 
until  all  memory  of  the  sunnier  world 
faded  out  of  mind.  Sometimes  we 
emerged  suddenly  into  a  wide,  brilliant 
glade;  sometimes  we  came  into  a  sanc 
tuary  so  overhung  with  great  masses  of 
foliage,  so  secluded  and  silent,  that  we 
took  the  rude  pile  of  moss-grown  stones 
we  found  there  as  an  altar  to  solitude, 
and  our  stillness  became  part  of  the 
universal  worship  of  silence  which 
touched  us  with  a  deep  and  beautiful 
solemnity.  Wherever  we  strayed  the 
same  tranquil  leisure  enfolded  us;  day 
followed  day  in  an  order  unbroken  and 
peaceful  as  the  unfolding  of  the  flowers 
and  the  silent  march  of  the  stars.  Time 


If  ^- 


no  longer  ran  like  the  few  sands  in  a 
delicate  hour-glass  held  by  a  fragile 
human  hand,  but  like  a  majestic  river 
fed  by  fathomless  seas.  The  sky,  bare 
and  free  from  horizon  to  horizon,  was 
itself  a  symbol  of  eternity,  with  its 
infinite  depth  of  colour,  its  sublime 
serenity,  its  deep  silence  broken  only 
by  the  flight  and  songs  of  birds.  These 
were  at  home  in  that  ethereal  sphere, 
at  rest  in  that  boundless  space,  and 
we  were  not  slow  to  learn  the  lesson 
of  their  freedom  and  joy.  We  gave 
ourselves  up  to  the  sweetness  of  that 
unmeasured  life,  without  thought  of 
yesterday  or  to-morrow ;  we  drank  the 
cup  which  to-day  held  to  our  lips,  and 
knew  that  so  long  as  we  were  athirst 
that  draught  would  not  be  denied  us. 


.  .  *  every  of  this  happy  number 

That  have  endur'd  shrewd  nights  and 

days  with  us, 
Shall  share  the  good  of  our  returned 

fortune, 
According  to  the  measure  of  their  states 


There  is  this  great  consolation  for 
I  those  who  cannot  live  continually  in 
|  the  Forest  of  Arden:  that,  having  I 
I  once  proven  one's  citizenship  there,  I 
tone  can  return  at  will*  Those  who 
jhave  lived  in  Arden  and  have  gone 
'back  again  into  the  world,  are  sus- 
jtained  in  their  loneliness  by  the  knowl- 
jedge  of  their  fellowship  with  a  nobler 
y  community.  Aliens  though  they  are, 
'they  have  yet  a  country  to  which  they 
|  are  loyal,  not  through  interest,  but 
^through  aspiration,  imagination,  faith, 
I  and  love.  Rosalind  and  I  found  the 

months  in  Arden  all  too  brief;  our  life 
(there  was  one  long  golden  day,  whose 
1  sunset  cast  a  soft  and  tender  light' 

on     our     whole    past     and     made    it! 
j  beautiful    for     us.    It    is    one   of    the 
]  delights   of  the    Forest    that    only  the 
l| noblest  aspects  of  life  are  visible  there;, 
Jor,   rather,    that  the    hard    and     bare! 
f  details    of    living,    seen  in  the   atmos- 


phere  of  Arden,  yield  some  truth  of 
character  or  experience  which,  like  the 
rose,  makes  even  the  rough  calyx  which 
encased  it  beautiful.  We  had  some 
times  spoken  together  of  our  return 
to  the  world  we  had  left,  but  we  put 
off  as  long  as  possible  all  definite  prep 
arations.  I  am  not  sure  that  I  should 
ever  have  come  back  if  Rosalind  had 
not  taken  the  matter  into  her  own 
hands.  She  remembered  that  there  1 
was  work  to  be  done  which  ought 
not  to  be  longer  postponed;  that  there 
were  duties  to  be  met  which  ought  not 
to  be  longer  evaded ;  and  when  did 
Rosalind  fail  to  be  or  to  do  that  which  & 
the  hour  and  the  experience  com- 
manded?  We  treasured  the  last  days 
as  if  the  minutes  were  pure  gold; 
we  lingered  in  talk  with  our  friends 
as  if  we  should  never  again  hear 
such  spoken  words ;  we  loitered  in  the  ^ 
woods  as  if  the  spell  of  that  beautiful 

116 


silence  would  never  again  touch  us. 
And  yet  we  knew  that,  once  pos 
sessed,  these  things  were  ours  for  ever ; 
neither  care,  nor  change,  nor  time, 
nor  death,  could  take  them  from  us, 
for  henceforth  they  were  part  of  our 
selves. 

We  stood  again  at  length  on  the 
little  porch,  covered  with  dust,  and 
turned  the  key  in  the  unused  lock. 
I  think  we  were  both  a  little  reluctant 
to  enter  and  begin  again  the  old  round 
of  life  and  work.  The  house  seemed 
smaller  and  less  homelike,  the  furniture 
had  lost  its  freshness,  the  books  on 
the  shelves  looked  dull  and  faded. 
Rosalind  ran  to  a  window,  opened  it, 
and  let  in  a  flood  of  sunshine.  I  con 
fess  I  was  beginning  to  feel  a  little 
heartsick,  but  when  the  light  fell  on 
her  I  remembered  the  rainy  day  in 
Arden,  when  the  first  rays  after  the 
storm  touched  her  and  dispelled  the 


gloom,  and  I  realised,  with  a  joy  too 
deep  for  words  or  tears,  that  I  had 
brought  the  best  of  Arden  with  me, 
We  talked  little  during  those  first  days 
of  our  home-coming,  but  we  set  the 
house  in  order,  we  recalled  to  the 
lonely  rooms  the  old  associations,  and 
we  quietly  took  up  the  cares  and  bur 
dens  we  had  dropped*  It  was  not 
easy  at  first,  and  there  were  days  when 
we  were  both  heartsore;  but  we  waited 
and  worked  and  hoped.  Our  neigh 
bours  found  us  more  silent  and  absorbed 
than  of  old,  but  neither  that  change  nor 
our  absence  seemed  to  have  made 
any  impression  upon  them.  Indeed,  we 
even  doubted  if  they  knew  that  we 
had  taken  such  a  journey.  Day  by 
day  we  stepped  into  the  old  places  and 
fell  into  the  old  habits,  until  all  the 
broken  threads  of  our  life  were  reunited 
and  we  were  apparently  as  much  a  part 
of  the  world  as  if  we  had  never  gone 

118 


|  out  of  it  and  found  a  nobler  and  happier 
sphere, 

But  there   came  to    us  gradually  a1 
dear     consciousness   that,    though    we' 
were  in  the  world,  we  were  not  of  it, 
nor   ever  again  could  be.     It  was  no 
longer    our    world;   its    standards,    its 
thoughts,  its  pleasures,  were  not  for  us. 
We  were  not  lonely  in  it;  on  the  con- 

f!trary,  when  the  first  impression  of 
strangeness  wore  off,  we  were  happier 
than  we  had  ever  been  in  the  old  days. 
Our  reputation  was  no  longer  in  the 
breath  of  men;  our  fortune  was  no 
longer  at  the  mercy  of  rising  or  falling 
markets ;  our  plans  and  hopes  were  no 
longer  subject  to  chance  and  change. 
We  had  a  possession  in  the  Forest  of 
Arden,  and  we  had  friends  and  dreams 
there  beyond  the  empire  of  time  and 
fate.  And  when  we  compared  the 

|  security  of  our  fortunes  with  the  vicis 
situdes  to  which  the  estates  of  our 


119 


neighbours  were  exposed;  when  we 
compared  our  noble-hearted  friends 
with  their  meaner  companionships; 
when  we  compared  the  peaceful  seren 
ity  of  our  hearts  with  their  perplexities 
and  anxieties,  we  were  filled  with  in 
expressible  sympathy.  We  no  longer 
pierced  them  with  the  arrows  of  satire 
and  wit  because  they  accepted  lower 
standards  and  found  pleasure  in  things 
essentially  pleasureless ;  they  had  not 
lived  in  Arden,  and  why  should  we 
berate  them  for  not  possessing  that 
which  had  never  been  within  their 
reach  ?  We  saw  that  upon  those  whom 
an  inscrutable  fate  has  led  through  the 
paths  of  Arden  a  great  and  noble  duty 
is  laid.  They  are  not  to  be  the  scorners 
and  despisers  of  those  whose  eyes  are 
holden  that  they  cannot  see,  and  whose 
ears  are  stopped  that  they  cannot  hear, 
the  vision  and  the  melody  of  things 
ideal.  They  are  rather  to  be  eyes  to 


the  blind  and  ears  to  the  deaf.  They 
are  to  interpret  in  unshaken  trust  and 
patience  that  which  has  been  revealed 
to  them ;  servants  are  they  of  the  Ideal, 
and  their  ministry  is  their  exceeding  great 
reward*  So  long  as  they  see  clearly, 
it  is  small  matter  to  them  that  their 
message  is  rejected,  the  mighty  conscK 
lation  which  they  bring  refused;  their 
joy  does  not  hang  on  acceptance  or 
rejection  at  the  hands  of  their  fellows. 
The  only  real  losers  are  those  who  will 
not  see  nor  hear.  It  is  not  the  light- 
bringer  who  suffers  when  the  torch  is 
torn  from  his  hands;  it  is  those  whose 
paths  he  would  lighten. 

And  more  and  more,  as  the  days 
went  by,  Rosalind  and  I  found  the  life 
of  the  Forest  stealing  into  our  old 
home.  The  old  monotony  was  gone; 
the  old  weariness  and  depression  crossed 
our  threshold  no  more.  If  work  was 
pressing,  we  were  always  looking 


through  and  beyond  it;  we  saw  the 
fine  results  that  were  being  accomplished 
in  it;  we  recognised  the  high  necessity 
which  imposed  it.  If  perplexities  and 
cares  sat  with  us  at  the  fireside,  we 
received  them  as  friends;  for  in  the 
light  of  Arden  had  we  not  seen  their 
harsh  masks  removed,  and  behind  them 
the  benignant  faces  of  those  who  pa 
tiently  serve  and  minister,  and  receive 
no  reward  save  fear  and  avoidance  and 
misconception  ?  In  fact,  having  lived  in 
Arden,  and  with  the  consciousness  that 
we  might  seek  shelter  there  as  in 
another  and  securer  home,  the  world 
barely  touched  us,  save  to  awaken  our 
sympathies  and  to  evoke  our  help.  It 
had  little  to  give  us;  we  had  much  to 
give  it.  There  was  within  and  about 
us  a  peace  and  joy  which  were  not  for 
us  alone.  Our  little  home  was  folded 
within  impalpable  walls,  and  beyond  it 
lay  a  vision  of  green  foliage  and  golden 


masses  of  cloud  that  never  faded  off  the 
horizon.  There  were  benignant  pres 
ences  in  our  rooms  visible  to  no  eyes 
but  ours;  for  our  Arden  friends  did 
not  forsake  us.  There  were  memories 
between  us  which  made  all  our  days 
beautiful  with  the  consciousness  of 
immortal  faith  and  love;  there  were 
hopes  which,  like  celestial  beings,  looked 
upon  us  with  eyes  deep  with  unspeak 
able  prophecy  as  they  waited  at  the 
doors  of  the  future. 

It  is  an  autumn  afternoon,  and  the 
sun  lies  warm  on  the  ripening  vines  that 
cover  the  wall,  and  on  the  late  flowers  j 
that  bloom  by  the  roadside.    As  I  write  j 
these  words  I  look  up  from  my  portfolio, 
and  Rosalind  sits  there,  work  in  hand, 
|  smiling  at  me  over  her  flying  needle. ; 
I  My  glance  rests  on  her  a  moment,  and* 
|  a  strange  uncertainty  comes  over  me.i 
Have  I  really  been  in  Arden,  or  have  I| 


12.3 


dreamed  these  things,  looking  into 
Rosalind's  eyes?  It  matters  little 
whether  I  have  travelled  or  dreamed; 
where  Rosalind  ist  there,  for  me  at  least, 
lies  the  Forest  of  Arden, 


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